CHAPTER XXI—THE RECKONING
| “He flees From his own treachery; all his pride, his hopes, Are scattered at a breath; even courage fails Now falsehood sinks from under him.” —Walter Savage Landor. |
As Peggy placed the candle she had carried to light them up the stairs in the socket of a candlestick on the chest of drawers, Harriet closed the door, and shot the bolt. Then slowly the two turned and stood face to face. Not a word was spoken for a full moment. They gazed at each other as though seeking to pierce the mask of flesh and bones that hid their souls.
It was a tense moment. The attitude of the Quakeress was accusing; that of the English girl defiant, changing to one of supplication as the dark eyes of her cousin held her own orbs in that intent look. For a time she bore the gaze unflinchingly, but soon her glance wavered, her eyelids drooped, and she sank into a chair whispering:
“You know, Peggy. You know!”
“Yes,” said Peggy. “I know, Harriet.”
“Will—will they hang me, Peggy? What did Mr. Washington say? Oh, I have been so miserable this afternoon! I thought they were coming to take me every time the door opened. And you were so long with him. What did he say?”
“He does not know that it was thee who writ the letter yet, Harriet,” Peggy informed her calmly.
“Not know?” ejaculated Harriet, springing up in amazement. “Did you not tell him, Peggy?”
“No, Harriet. I promised thee this morning that I would not, and I could not break my word,” explained Peggy simply.